There's this little thing I enjoy every morning. After my morning constitutional and cup of coffee, it's first up. And I think you might like it, too.
I read Nat the Fat Rat's blog. I know, you're busy and skeptical of the postings by someone who would call themselves a rat. But it's a gem of a read and Natalie writes like a dream, mixing together in a big pot sweetness, tartness, and a full helping of joy about this crazy world we live in. And serves it up with a yummy sense of humor that comes straight from the heart.
Here's a couple of her laugh-aloud posts. Bon appetit!
----- POST A ------
I have a few questions about this Old Testatment stuff.
So, Adam lives to be nine hundred and thirty, Enos finally dies at nine hundred and five. Then somehow Mahaleel only makes it to sixty-five? Sixty-five! And I wonder, what happened there? They don't go into much detail. Was he eaten by something? Something large? ...
I am awfully glad we're not living to be nine hundred years old anymore. In my family we have a knack for outliving our mental capacities. My dear Aunt Beulah and I once carried on the same conversation for five years solid.
"Is that your son?"
"No Aunt Beulah, that's my brother."
"Oh ... is that your son?"
I like the story of Noah particularly. I like the idea of God surveying all that man had become and deciding, Nope, This Won't Do At All, and then just starting over from scratch. That happens to me a lot in the kitchen. ... I like how after the waters had dried God looked around and said, Well, I Won't Do That Again. That also happens to me a lot in the kitchen. ...
----- POST B ------
The fact of the matter is, it is cold outside. It is the kind of cold where errands leave you frozen and chapped, where any flakes that fall are just remnants of dead clouds, clouds mercilessly attacked by icy winds. Cloud dandruff. Because it is cold.
I wasn't going to go running today because, have you heard? It is freezing. It is so cold that even the dogs don't want to be outside. Serious business cold.
I had grand plans for myself and the treadmill. We had a date, the two of us. In a heated bedroom. With Hulu on the laptop. And the The Holbs (husband) made this sort of off-handed comment you know. Something or other about being a wimp? Or that maybe I wasn't man enough to handle the elements? References to poultry?
Suddenly my afternoon contained one three-mile tour of the frozen tundra, but I had conditions. You know, terms. The terms were that he had to go running with me and also wasn't allowed to complain about how slow I am. Then I put on every article of clothing I owned. Cause it's cold, guys!
I will skip the part of the story where I started off faster than The Holbs expected and he had to sprint to catch up with me; I will skip the part where he complimented my form so as not to brag; I'll also skip the part where I blasted it up the hill and didn't even stop once even though I really wanted to; I will also skip the part where The Holbs had to pee in the porta potty on the trail. What I will NOT skip is the part where The Holbs had a cramp in his side and I did not, because this merits some elaboration.
So The Holbs, he gets this cramp, see.
Ow he says. He slows down.
What's the matter? I say, not nicely, but in more of a tauntingly nature you understand.
I have a side ache! he wheezes.
You have a side ache?! I am incredulous. This is the captain of the high school soccer team, the 'I-run-for-fun' guy. I checked for my side cramp. My side cramp wasn't there!
Oh Ho! I shout. It is dawning on me. I have just kicked my husband's trash.
You gonna be okay? Are you having a heart attack? I am not really concerned, let's not forget.
No, no just not used to running is all ...
I am tuning him out here and also maybe doing some jumping jacks, you know. Oh well, see you at home, I say.
I start to trot off. Then I ran hard. The Holbs nearly caught up with me about a block away from the house but I ran even faster. I didn't know my stumpy fatty legs could go that fast! And you know what? Through a little side-ache luck, I totally beat that danged redheaded ding dong home. Little old me! Well lah-dee-dah.
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http://www.natthefatrat.com/
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